


Hold It

by soloboys



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Consent Issues, Daddy Kink, Gambling, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Omorashi, Parent/Child Incest, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 04:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14180256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soloboys/pseuds/soloboys
Summary: Until Ben’s old enough to think on his feet, he has to earn his keep on his back.  You don’t make twelve parsecs with dead weight on your ship.(Read the warnings please! Ben's age isn't mentioned but he is under 18.)





	Hold It

The thing about a good cantina is you can always see the exits.

Cal’an isn’t much of a planet but there’s a harvest on and with it, traders.  The only difference between a trader and a smuggler is where your bribe money goes.  That’s what Dad always says.

There’s a happy medium of the kind of cantina Dad can bring him to.  The really swank ones don’t want men like Han, and the really shitty ones don’t want boys like him.  Solos are always rough around the edges.

Dad used to come home smelling like this place.  Stale sweat and spilled Nagruni beer, attar smoke that never truly leaves a jacket, the cloying kiss of Twi’lek perfume – Ben used to bury his nose in Dad’s collar and drink him in, like he could inhale away all the hours he’d missed him. 

They don’t owe anyone money here, not yet.  Ben follows his father in, his shoulders falling into a less confident echo of his Dad’s easy swagger.  Ben can see all the exits but Dad has already marked all the easy targets in sight before they’re halfway across the room.  Dad slides up to the bar, smiling his trust-me grin as he orders a double shot of Retsa for himself and a glass of lime’s rose for Ben. 

“Water it down a little, would you?”

The Falcon’s docked with one of his Dad’s old contacts, a guy with one eye and eight fingers.  It’s almost an hour away, and it’s been longer since they’ve stopped running Dad’s endless errands.  He’ll never talk the way his Dad can, easily and endlessly about everything from farra-wheat crop-rot to Republican political scandals.  Dad sows seeds of himself everywhere.

“Cheers, buddy.”

Ben clinks his glass and swallows half of his juice.  It’s sweet, like all the other treats Dad’s been buying for him today – melba snow ices, malted carob shakes, nitro-dipped cream whips that melt in his mouth.  Dad always says he’s too old for a sweet tooth but he lapses into indulgence when he’s closing in on a big deal or riding high off a score.

“I’m gonna go talk to some friends over there, Ben.  You stay right here where I can see you, you got it?”

Ben nods while his fingers slide through the condensation slicking his glass.  He could use a trip to the can but he can’t leave his Dad in the lurch like that.

Ben can hold it.  He’s not a fucking kid.

True to his word, Dad keeps looking back at him as he talks to a small group of merchants Ben dimly recognizes from their afternoon rounds.  Their fingers glitter with hard white stones, Cal’an’s other claim to fame. Rumor has it they make slave kids crawl into narrow, poison-mucked tunnels to dig them out with their bare hands.  They’re hard enough to cut through flexisteel and they’re the currency of the realm as far as he can tell.

They all smile at him.

Ben licks his lips, setting his empty glass down on the bar.  Ben will never have his Dad’s charm or his silver-tongue. He’ll never be half the pilot or a third the smuggler of the great Han Solo, but Ben’s a Solo all the same.  He’s been pulling trade a lot longer than he’s been allowed in back-ass cantinas like this.

Dad always says kids are good for two things – stealing and sweethearting.  Ben’s thieving days had ended when he’d tripped over some off-world junta palace guard and landed himself two days in a holding cell that smelled like sarlacc asshole.  Ben had thought he was going to die there, but Dad can talk his way out of anything.

“Another lime’s for the kid.”

Before Ben can object – he really has to go – Dad claps his hand over Ben’s neck, warm and heavy. 

“Listen, kiddo, we can make a lot of dough if you show my friends over here a good time tonight.”

It’s been a while since there’s been this many, but Dad always makes sure he’s not too out of practice. 

“You’re my good boy, you know that?”

Until Ben’s old enough to think on his feet, he has to earn his keep on his back.  You don’t make twelve parsecs with dead weight on your ship.

Dad’s off with a drink in his hand before Ben can ask where they’re going or if he can stop to take a leak first.  Through the sidelong glances of the cantina crowd, past a table of grim Tauri playing holochess and up a flight of stairs, Dad leads him to a back room with a table full of poker cards and blaster burns. 

The four merchants around the table are all lean, hard-looking men, on this backwater planet where even the wealthy don’t run to fat.  Ben doesn’t introduce himself. Dad always handles all that.

“Gentlemen, let’s play some cards.”

Dad guides him to a corner and plops him down on a creaky old stool.  Ben can see the exit but he can’t see a bathroom. He swallows as Dad hands him his glass of juice.

“Dad, I have to—”

“Need you to wait here until I give you the signal, you got it?”

Ben nods. 

Dad can run a card game like he’s conducting an orchestra.  Ben counts cards and keeps track of the minor cheats and sleights his Dad peppers throughout the game, a chef seasoning his meat.  Jewels glitter in growing piles, plucked from fingers and inside robes. Dad likes places like this, where the currency isn’t as traceable as credits but is still easy to transport.  They’d smuggled more than a few jewels inside the cargo-hold of Ben’s body, because, like his Dad says, no one wants to admit they’re thinking about a kid’s asshole.

“You’re killing me, Parlo.”

Dad is losing.  Ben shifts on his stool, willing away the itching flush under his skin.  His belly’s pressing into the waistband of his pants, and no matter how he fidgets he can’t find any relief.  He presses his lips together.

“You Lani’s don’t fuck around, I’ll give you that.”

There are sandworms that draw in their prey by bunching up their tentacles to resemble a wounded animal.  They wait until some hungry creature draws near, lured by an easy kill, and sometimes let the poor bastard eat part of their limb before they snap closed and swallow it whole. 

Dad’s got his sandworm smile on.

“Can’t believe you cleaned me out.”

Dad throws his cards on the table, scattering what only Ben knows is a false-lose of a hand.  Most people are suckers. The presumptive winner cradles his pile of jewels in scarred palms. Ben sucks his cheek between his teeth, chewing until it hurts.  It does nothing to silence the throb in his belly, pulsing under his skin and aching right through to his dick. A long game takes time.

“You gentlemen seem like you enjoy a good wager.”

Half of them look at Ben before Dad even waves him over.  Standing up makes it better for an instant before it’s so much worse.  Moving his legs makes his stomach all sloshy and he can barely stand still when he comes to wait by Dad’s side.  He lowers his voice, turns his face from the hungry eyes sizing up his body.

“Dad, hold on, I have to go—”

Dad shushes him, his eyes the kind of hard that makes Ben swallow.  His mouth still tastes like juice. 

“Take your clothes off, Ben.”

“Dad, I really have to pee,” Ben whispers through his teeth. 

“I know.  I said take your clothes off.”

The bad feeling in Ben’s stomach almost eclipses his need to piss.  He shrugs his shirts off, letting them fall to the dirty floor. His stomach isn’t as flat as usual and just reaching for the buttons of his pants has him rocking up onto his toes, anything to ease the shameful itch under his fingernails. 

“Daddy, please.”

Dad shushes him again, shakes his head.  Dad’s eyes look like different colors depending on the light.  They’re gold-green right now, glinting as he stares Ben down. Ben swallows a mouthful of watery saliva and slips out of his boots.  His pants pool around his ankles and the air in their close, warm little room is suddenly too cold all over him. Ben shivers.

“See, my boy’s been holding it in for a long time.  How about … first one to make him piss himself before you blow your load gets the whole pot?”

Ben’s already hot all over but his cheeks flush crimson.  There’s four men gathered around the table, five counting Dad.  He can’t. 

“Daddy, I don’t—”

“You hold out until the last one before me, you understand?” Dad whispers, pulling Ben to his side.  Dad’s always warm. Ben nods, sizing up the other men circled around the table. He’s still warm from Dad keeping him in shape last night.

“Now, I know he looks small, but don’t worry.  He can handle it.”

Dad stands up and turns him around, letting Ben press his face into his chest.  This is so much easier when he’s not full-up to bursting like this, when just the familiar press of Dad’s petrolatum-smeared fingers at his hole doesn’t make his teeth ache with the strain of holding it in.  Dad works him open to approving hisses from the men they’re about to swindle. Ben doesn’t need to know the whole plan to know that no one gets him for free.

They roll dice to see who goes first.  Through what the merchants think is bad luck and Ben knows is Dad’s deft wrist and weighted die, Dad’s last in line. 

“You be a good boy, Ben,” Dad says, pressing a kiss to their secret spot right behind Ben’s ear. 

Ben unclenches his thighs enough to walk over to the first man, a bald guy with a scraggly beard and red stains at the tips of his fingernails. 

“How do you want me, mister?”

His teeth are stained the same rusted red when he smiles.

“Have to say I like girls better, but a hole’s a hole when they’re bent over, eh?”

Everyone laughs.  Ben has to inch onto his tip-toes to bend over the table, and the pressure against his belly makes his throat hitch. 

“Fat little ass on you, almost look like a girl, don’t you?”

The first push always hurts, but it’s a blinding pain that shuts off the ache in his bladder for a few short minutes.  Dad says every man likes to know he’s making his mark, so Ben funnels the frustrated ache in his belly into the throaty, open-mouthed noises they all like.  Red-tooth fucks him with both hands on his hips, slamming Ben against the table with each thrust of his mediocre cock. This would be so easy if he didn’t have to piss.  Just thinking the word makes his eyes roll back.

“Fuckin’ hells.”

Red-tooth finishes with a frustrated groan and a mean-spirited slap to Ben’s ass.  All Ben can think is,  _ One Down _ .  Dad smiles at him, cat-pleased as the man pulls out and leaves a slick trail spilling down Ben’s thighs. 

The second guy might be shorter but not where it counts.  Ben barely has time to take a breath before he’s pushing into the wet mess of his predecessor, splitting Ben open and grabbing at his dick. 

“Always liked boys myself.  Stay nice and tight and you don’t have to worry about getting ‘em knocked up.”

His hands are rough, tugging at Ben’s soft prick and fondling the smooth weight of his balls.  It’s awful, so close to the relief Ben needs. Ben had struggled with his aim when he was little and they were careening through space at a gallop.  Dad used to hold it for him and help him.

Ben grits his teeth and bears down on the fat cock inside him, willing everything closed.  Dad taught him early how to grip up and finish a man off, and it’s a skill Ben’s happy to have as his stomach presses against the edge of the table.  His eyes prick with tears and a wave of nausea crests inside him as the second man curses and spills in him. Ben’s used to the mess, but even the wet feeling between his legs is a torment, too close to what he’s desperately trying to quell.

He’s crying by the time the third man pulls him onto his lap and presses a big, gnarled hand over his belly. 

“Daddy,” Ben sobs, unbidden, facing out where everyone can see, his legs spread and his ass leaking down onto the man’s balls.  Dad’s watching him, smug and stern all at once as Ben hiccups and fights the doubled insult of having his insides rearranged and his outsides prodded by some stranger’s hand.  His belly’s too full, pooched out and he can swear he hears it swilling around inside him. 

“Daddy, I can’t, please, Daddy, I—”

Some men like it when he begs, and some of Ben’s tears are from relief when the third man grunts and pulls him down hard to finish.  Dad’s eyes are shining and he’s grinding a hand over his dick, pleased. Ben’s legs barely work as he staggers to his feet but Dad smiles.

“That’s my boy.”

There’s one left, Parlo, clearly the boss of this little backwater gang.  His eyes haven’t left Ben’s face once. 

“Want to see this little cock bounce for me.”

Ben’s gotten sparked before, helping his Dad with some wiring on the Falcon or easing open some cargo-bay door when they’re making a quick exit.  Each step on his shaky feet has him shocky and bent over, his hand cupping over his own dick as tears roll down his face. Parlo doesn’t want him on his feet and it’s only his Dad staring over at him that keeps Ben from losing it before Parlo gets him flat-backed on top of the rough table.  His skin digs into half a deck of cards as Parlo pushes his legs up.

Ben can taste it in his mouth when Parlo pulls him down, pushing Ben’s legs up and apart and sliding home into his come-slicked asshole.  Dad stands up, circling around until Ben can see him over Parlo’s muscled shoulder, his lip twitching up into half a smile as Parlo fucks into him wet and noisy.  Over the pressure in his belly and the searing ache blistering from his cock to his fucking teeth, Ben blinks back his tears, shaking open-mouthed as he stares over Parlo.  Dad slides his middle finger down the side of his nose, one of their signals. 

“Daddy,” Ben chokes, throwing his hand out, fingers reaching for his father as he takes a ragged breath and lets go. 

“You messy little slut,” Parlo growls, fucking him faster as the first spurt of Ben’s piss hits his chest.  There’s so much, a jet stream Ben can’t control as it soaks over his belly and his chest, pools into his neck to soak the tips of his hair.  Ben could die for how good it feels, as good as the reward kisses Dad gives him down there when he pulls in a lot of credits for them, as good as the nights where Dad takes Ben in his lap and makes up names for the clusters of stars gleaming from their viewport. 

Parlo finishes inside him, rooted deep and clearly delighted at the pathetic, filthy sight of Ben beneath him.  Ben’s stream ebbs to a slow trickle onto his belly, piss seeping hot against his clammy skin. It’s turning cold by the time Parlo pulls out of him, wrenching out a nasty splatter of jizz that hits the floor with a thwak.  Ben’s swimmy, overfucked and shaking in his bare skin, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to settle back into his body.

He yelps when Dad grabs him by the ear and hauls him off the table.

“Do you know how much fucking money you just cost us?”

Ben stumbles, sore and shaky-kneed as Dad pulls him to the back wall.  Drops of piss slide off his skin as Dad forces him to his knees. The four men who’d just emptied themselves inside of him gather around, their faces as rapt as they are horrified.

“I told you to hold it.”

Dad’s voice is loud, over-done.  He slides his finger down his nose before he undoes his pants with one hand.   _ Think on your feet, Ben, that’s what you have to learn. _

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Ben sobs, the tremor in his voice easy to put on.  Dad wrenches his face up, his hand hard in Ben’s piss-soaked hair.

“You’ll learn.”

Some nights, when he gets to sleep in Dad’s bunk or they’re taking a shower together, Ben wonders if his dick will ever be as big as Dad’s.  It’s not even fully hard when he takes it out and rests it against Ben’s lips, but the men gathered around them all groan.

“Open your mouth, Ben.”

“Seven hells, Solo,” one of them curses, right before the first trickle of Dad’s piss hits his tongue.  Ben chokes, coughing half of it to dribble down his chest, tears springing back into his eyes at the dank, salty taste.  He whines, gurgling, swallowing what he can and drooling the rest all over himself. His face burns with shame, that he can’t do a better job, that he still hasn’t figured out what Dad’s playing at, that maybe he misunderstood and fucked up their whole con.

“Daddy,” Ben whines, closing his eyes and wishing Dad could still pick him up and get him out of this like he’s small again.  Dad’s hand is still in his hair when Parlo starts cursing.

“Where the fuck are my fucking stones?”

Over the din of voices, Dad pulls him to his feet and leans down to his ear.

“Clothes, now.”

Ben glances down balefully at the mess all over himself.

“Clean up later, just trust me. And hey, good job, kid.”

Ben’s got his clothes back on before Parlo wheels around, his finger pointing at Dad.  Parlo’s ill-gotten pile of gems is nowhere to be seen.

“Solo, what did you—”

“This is the kind of business you run, Parlo? Can’t even keep your own games safe?  I let you use my boy fair and square, shit, you had your eyes on me the whole time. Unbelievable.”

Dad’s still yelling as they hustle out.  Ben keeps his face down as they push through the crowd.  Dad tucks him against his back and fires up their borrowed speeder before Parlo and the rest of his crew even make it outside.

“We make a great team, don’t we, kid?”

Ben hugs his arms around Dad’s waist, itchy in his damp clothes but warm all over. 

“Sorry I didn’t give you the full details, you know, had to make it seem real.  But we are definitely pulling that one again, shit, their fucking faces. Ruph could have stolen their teeth out of their damn heads.”

Dad barks out a laugh as they cruise past the outer limits of town.  They pull over at a waystation where Ruph, a black-eyed little Sullustan with a hoarse laugh, is waiting.  He dumps out a palmful of jewels for Dad and they shake on it.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Ruph.”

Ruph says something in his own liquid tongue.  Ben’s never had his father’s ear for languages.  Dad rolls his eyes and waves a hand at Ben.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine.”

They load back up and cruise out to their dock, Dad laughing the whole way.

“Made us enough dough for a new multiplier, kiddo.  Nice fucking work.”

Dad’s been complaining about that multiplier for ages.  Even over the bumpy hum of their speeder engine, Ben’s insides settle down into perfect quiet.

“Hey, you wanna sleep in Daddy’s bunk tonight?”

Ben smiles and turns his cheek to the warm leather of Dad’s jacket.

 


End file.
